Book Review: One Day by David Nicholls

I would honestly like to know:  are we ever going to get some decent fall weather in the District?  I've just about had it with my only two options being plastering my 'fro to my head or looking like a Treasure Troll wandering the streets of DC.  It's nearly November and I'm scared to change my wardrobe because surely some other 80 degree monsoon is lurking around the corner.

ANYWHO.  Back to the book review.  Though I'm not sure I can seriously review this little morsel.  It was a summer reading choice for one of my book clubs (Yes.  I'm in two book clubs.), point being that it was a crack pop love story that would be easy to read, perhaps, while aimlessly bobbing in some body of water with a cocktail in your hand (or whatever else it is you people do for your summers).  Dexter Mahew and Emma Morley bob and weave in and out of a life long cat-and-mouse game, which had its surprisingly charming moments, and its more unsurprisingly dull ones.  Not what I'd call clever (which we all know is my holy grail for literature, music, men, life), but it had its own warmth that inadvertently attached you fondly to the characters and would result in moderate sadness if, say, one of them were to die at the end just after they finally found love.

Whoops!  Spoiler alert.  My B!  Not like any of y'all would deep dive into this high-grade smut.  And it's really the only eventful thing in the whole flipping 450 pages (Promise I wouldn't spoil a good one!  Honest!).  Tragedy is delicious, especially when it's foreshadowed by a bit 'o haunting- which reminds me, Happy Halloween!...

She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the ear;...her own birthday; and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share.  She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there.  When was it?  ~ Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles